


Fifteen Minutes

by DeathByJumpingFrenchman



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bisexual Richie Tozier, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Eddie is fierce, Eddie is shopping, Employee/Shopper AU, Flirting, Fluff, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, It's Christmas Eve, Listen just let my boi be strong like his is in cannon, M/M, Richie is in love, Richie works in Sur La Table, but really on the sly, kind of, meet cute, more like, self deprication, this binch is adorable okay, undertones of self loating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathByJumpingFrenchman/pseuds/DeathByJumpingFrenchman
Summary: Richie was pretty sure he was dead. There was no way, no fucking way, that the most beautiful boy that had ever stepped into Sur La Table was flirting with him, Resident Trashmouth, over a fucking whisk. And so, as any boy who was helplessly gay and desperately lonely would, Richie panicked.“It did when I tried it out on your mom last night,” he said, his voice unnaturally high and his eyes wide, before he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth to stop anything else utterly life ruining from slipping out.-or, the one where christmas eve shopping is crazy, eddie is Tired Hopeful and Flirty, and richie is having a heart attack.





	Fifteen Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> Someone really needs to take the IT fandom away from me.  
> This is a mess tbh, but I really just wanted to write a Christmas themed meet cute. My love of Sur La Table got away from me and bled into the fic a bit.  
> Anyway, this is my attempt a humor. Sorry for any mistakes, it's late and I want gingerbread so. Not in the best editing mood.  
> Happy Holidays! Thanks for taking the time to visit this Gay Trash!  
> Warnings: VERY SLIGHT homophobia, references to bad parenting, very heavy use of profanity because I live and breathe for Richie Tozier.

     Richie knew working the shop Christmas Eve was going to be hectic. He knew his day would be filled with chaotic screaming and frantic customers and that he’d end up feeling so goddamn bad for some of them who were having a bad day and who obviously just wanted to get a specialty brand electric mini blender and get the fuck out. He also knew that he would inevitable want to reach across his checkout desk and strangle some of the dumb motherfuckers who would think it was his fault the store had so many people crowding it. Richie also knew that he was actually pretty good in high stress situations, and that this sort of thing was actually the perfect thing to get him in the Christmas spirit (and to allow him to ignore the fact that when he went home, it would be to an empty apartment, save for his dog). So, Richie endured the customers who looked bored to tears and those that he wanted to tear into, and found the smile on his face, while small, to actually (usually) be genuine.  
    This patience, however, did not stop the strange happenings of the day from getting to Richie.  
    The list of eventful encounters had begun with a terrified looking teenage girl. She had walked up to check out, a basket in her arms, and even from across the counter at four feet away, Richie could see she was shaking. It reminded him suddenly of standing with Stan, his best friend of many years, as he practiced reading the Torah, or giving a speech for school, or, later on into their early adulthood, even when he would go up to order food or buy something from a store. He smiled at the girl in a way he hoped was unthreatening, and as the words social anxiety flitted around his head as she shakily answered to wanting a bag or not, he made sure to slip some extra complimentary candy canes into her bag and to wish her a heartfelt good day in addition to the canned “Happy Holidays” he had been trained to call out.  
    The second had some in the form of a man, southern by his accent, who had been looking for the Sports Authority.  
    “It’s right across the foot court sir,” Richie had said, chewing on his gum loudly to emphasize his boredom and pushing up his glasses to look somewhat snooty.  
    “I don’t think so,” the man had said, his face twisted up into an ugly scowl that put crevices in unnatural places. “I know how to read a map, fucking fairy.”  
    It was then that Richie came to the conclusion that his “Happy Holigays” shirt and his red and green painted fingernails had maybe been a bit of overkill.  
    It was the third interesting encounter that just about made Richie snap out of the mask his friends had been so shocked he was able to pull off (that had landed him cashier of the month twice in a row much to his coworker Henry’s disdain) was a mother who had claimed to have lost her child, despite said child being strapped to her chest. It wasn’t so much that Richie was angry, or even particularly irritated at her… he just honestly felt like reaching over the counter and shaking her might have been the only way to convince her to maybe get some more sleep or to lay off the booze.  
    He pretended the shrinking feeling in his chest wasn’t because of the familiarity of the scene, and went about his day, putting up and sympathizing with patrons until it was one thirty, and his half day shift was almost over.  
    “How much is this?” Richie looked up to find a woman with beady eyes staring down at him (a rare feat), holding a spatula in her sweaty hand. Richie looked down at the spatula at hand (ha, he thought to himself, get it?) and found the price tag stuck right to the flat surface, largely broadcasting its monetary value. Now, of course, Richie was dealing. He hadn’t committed homicide yet, and he hadn’t tried to adopt anyone. He was doing okay, and he had put up with much worse, twice over, while being fucked by a horse (metaphorically of course). But this. For whatever reason, this woman and her sweaty hands and her beady eyes and her fucking spatula did something to Richie’s cool and patient demeanor.  
    Richie sucked a breathe through his teeth and straightened up, his eyes wide and serious.  
    “Five hundred,” he said, his voice grave as he leaned forward, slamming his hands down on the counter. “Five hundred dollars. But the real price,” he glanced around, playing up his fear for show, “is what it will do to you, every day. You’re gonna wake up lady, every day, you’re gonna wake up with a growing pit of emptiness inside of you. Your house will flood. You’ll lose your job. Nothing will be left to live for, with your children having left you for a better mother and your husband having realized that he’s a raging homosexual, and you’re going to think, _God, Mary, Joseph, little baby Jesus_ , how could you do this to me, and _why did you not stop me from buying that fucking spatula_?”  
    Okay. Maybe Richie had gone a bit too far, because the woman was now standing, the spatula clattering to the floor, with her mouth open as she slowly began to back away. He was about to call out, maybe to apologize, or to beg her not to say anything to his manager, when a small snort interrupted him.  
    Standing where the towering woman had been casting him in shadow stood the most attractive person Richie had ever seen in his entire fucking life.  
    “Um,” he said, his eyes trained on the beauty standing a few feet away from the register. “”H-hi, welcome to Sur La Table,” he cursed his voice as it cracked up and down in pitch.  
    “Guess I’m not getting a spatula then,” he said, his eyes sparkling and his mouth pulled up into a smirk that Richie certainly wasn’t staring at in absolute mesmeration _thank you very much_.  
    “No,” Richie agreed, schooling his features because _it’s just a cute boy Rich pull yourself together_. “Best not.”  
    “Any curse on my whole family or depression that’ll come with this whisk?” Cute Boy stepped up to the register, and Jesus, his hair that was slightly curled at the ends had gold undertones that caught only in the light when Richie could see him up close and there was a little freckle underneath his left eye and how was Richie supposed to focus when the boy’s lips were so beautifully chapped, left over from winter bites and those of teeth and-  
    “Just a good whipping,” Richie said with a cringe that he passed off as a wink.  
    _What? ‘Just a good whipping’? Richie! What the fuck are you trying to do here, flirt or get a restraining order, Jesus fuck, turn it down a little Romeo_.  
    And then the unthinkable happened. The boy, without breaking eye contact, leaned forward, snorted, and ran his fucking hand down Richie’s festive sweater.  
    “Yeah,” he said, licking his lips, “I’m sure it does.”  
    Richie was pretty sure he was dead. There was no way, no fucking way, that the most beautiful boy that had ever stepped into Sur La Table was flirting with him, Resident Trashmouth, over a fucking whisk. And so, as any boy who was helplessly gay and desperately lonely would, Richie panicked.  
    “It did when I tried it out on your mom last night,” he said, his voice unnaturally high and his eyes wide, before he quickly slapped his hand over his mouth to stop anything else utterly life ruining from slipping out.  
    “Beep beep, asshole.”  
    That was it. His life was over. Richie had nothing left to live for. This boy was scrunching up his nose and probably about to walk out of Richie’s life forever and it would utterly fuck him up and he’d have to go see a therapist about how his lack of a filter cost him Apollo’s literal incarnate and-  
    Wait.  
    Was he?  
    No.  
    No way.  
    The boy was _laughing_.  
    “I’m Eddie,” he said, whisk forgotten in his left hand as he extended his right for a handshake. Richie, who wasn’t really all that religious, felt for one moment like every deity humanity had ever conceived was licking his balls or something because he had been blessed with a second chance so great the force of it nearly knocked him over.  
    “Well, Eddie,” he said, taking the boy’s hand and bringing his knuckles up to his lips as he bowed his head and raised his eyebrows, “The name’s Richie, and-” he froze in befuddlement, “Did you just… beep at me?”  
    “Shut up,” he said, and Richie honestly must have been a fucking saint in a past life because this hot piece of ass was blushing.  
    “What brings you in today, Edmund?” Richie straightened up, keeping his hold on Eddie’s hand, and moved his arm in a circle, spinning Eddie around messily. The boy screeched and pulled his hand back, his cheeks red and his face soft.  
    “What the fuck,” he squealed as he tried to regain his balance. Richie took a deep breath, and knew that even if it was his last, even if he died right here, twenty three years old and working the Christmas Eve crowd at the mall, he would die happy. “I ordered stuff for my mom,” Eddie brought his hand up to ruffle with his hair nervously as he regained his balance and Richie gulped, “The boxes got stolen. And don’t call me that.”  
    “No shit,” Richie was ready to kill a bitch because _who hurts an actual ray of sunshine and actually thinks they can get away with it_? “That sucks Eds.”  
    “Yeah, well it would suck less if I could actually buy this whisk,” Eddie rolled his eyes playfully. “Some dickwad who doesn’t know my name won't ring me up."  
    "The shame!" Richie exclaimed, "Direct me to this rascal, let him meet the end of my sword."  
    "I'd like to meet the end of your sword," Eddie, the fucking thot, winked at Richie, not seeming to care that he was literally giving the poor boy a heart attack.  
    "Tell your mom I'm sorry then, guess her run is up as my main bitch." Eddie groaned, but there was still a bit of a smile at the corners of his lips.  
    "This is what I get for flirting with a trashmouth." Richie threw his head back in laughter.  
    "I love it when you talk dirty to me," he said, leaning forward and licking his lips sensually.  
    "Shut up and let me buy this fucking whisk," the boy pouted, crossing his arms after he laid down the whisk on the counter. His hair flopped forward in his mock petulance and Richie had to kick himself to stop from becoming distracted again.  
    "Your wish is my command, Edward."  
    With that, Richie went to work, his hands shaking from the sheer pressure not fucking up had on him as he scanned the whisk. He told Eddie the price and flashed him a smile that was now free from teasing and smirking, and was simply a tentative, testing little thing, almost an apology, but more the hope of a promise than anything. It was strangely vulnerable in the way only an upturn of eyebrows and parted lips tilted forward and a nose tilted up with cheekbones shifting out could be, and Eddie just about melted at the sight of it. He handed Richie the money and didn't bother hiding the way he purposefully brushed their hands together and let his sit there for a second or two more than he had to. Richie gulped, the smile still intact, and, in a bout of bravery, took Eddie's hand, squeezed it, and pulled away shyly.  
    "Two!" Richie burst out, his voice louder than it had been before as it broke through the carefully constructed web of silence.  
    "Um, what?" Eddie said, taken aback and still a bit shaken as the feeling of Richie's calloused hand lingered on his own. He resisted the urge to run his other hand along every place the boy had touched him, to savor the feeling in more than just memory. He tapered off the giggle of elation building somewhere high in his chest that made him feel almost as if he needed his inhaler again, though he'd long grown out of his asthma.  
    "My shift. It gets out at two, I'm only working a half day. If you don't have too much more to do, or don’t have any plans, I was thinking maybe we could like, get a coffee or something? I totally understand if you're busy, I just figured I'd ask-" Before Richie could embarrass himself even further, Eddie was backing into the store.  
    "Two? Two o'clock? That's in," he glanced down at his watch, still backing up from Richie, "Like, fifteen minutes," he backed right into a display and tried to cover up his stumbling with finger guns, "There's probably some things I still need to look at here," Richie was grinning by then. "I'm sure it'll only take me another, oh, I don't know," Eddie glanced back down at his watch, "Fifteen minutes. You might want to ask me out then," he turned with a wink, and went back to the decorating isle, leaving Richie smiling after him, eyes wide and dopey like the gay idiot he was.  
    Fifteen minutes, he thought as he looked out the store window at the chaos taking place in the central hub of the mall, and then back at the boy who was wiping down the display piping nozzles with a tissue. He could make it fifteen minutes.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This fandom has actually really helped me sort through some stuff (which is weird because it's about a killer clown??), so I hope I could contribute to the web of nice things we're all trying to sling from our pits of self hatred, anxiety, and depression.  
> If you wanna chat or check out my mediocre IT memes or honestly do whatever on tumblr, you can find me at [should-i-gay-or-should-i-go](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/should-i-gay-or-should-i-go).  
> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it! Happy December 25th to those who do not!


End file.
